


Past Your Bedtime

by theleaveswant



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Age Play, Authority Figures, Blow Jobs, Comfort, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Deepthroating, Discipline, Dom/sub, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Identity Kink, Insomnia, Late at Night, M/M, One of My Favorites, Orgasm Control, Roleplay, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need to talk to you about the Avengers Initiative.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Your Bedtime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sabinelagrande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/gifts).



> Belated entry for the [Scandalize a Conservative! Make Porn! Multifandom Comment Create-a-thon](http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/273033.html), for the prompt Fury/Tony, "In my house, in the middle of the night?" Set sometime between Iron Man 2 and The Avengers. Basically took the scenario from the Robot Chicken sketch/end of Iron Man, flipped it, and added a whopping scoop of daddy kink with a sprinkling of dubious consent.

Fury was halfway to the living room, slippers on and firearm ready at his side, before his brain caught up with his body, and all the way there before his security system caught up with his senses, identifying the intruder knocking gently on his patio door as one Tony Stark, designated Iron Man, looking petulantly through the shatterproof glass beneath the raised faceplate of his armored suit.

Fury scowled, holding up the gun so that Stark could see that the safety was on and that it didn't have to stay that way, before he unlocked the door. “The hell do you want?” he asked, because there was no point in asking how in hell he'd got this address.

Stark frowned. “Aren't you going to thank me for respecting your locked door and not just, I don't know, smashing in through a wall, like I could have done?”

Fury's scowl deepened, turned disbelieving. “Seriously? No, I am not going to thank you for that, even if that bare-minimum respect for slash recognition of personal boundaries does represent a significant moment of growth for you. You don't get rewarded for that. Now what are you doing in my house?”

“I need to talk to you about the Avengers Initiative.”

Fury scoffed. “In my house? In the middle of the night?”

“What, so it's okay for you to show up in someone's house whenever you feel like it, but not for me?”

“Yes, actually,” Fury said. “One of the few perks I receive as head of a secret paramilitary organization. I'm SHIELD; you're just a private citizen.”

“Look,” Stark sighed and tried to sidle in through the gap in the door, but Fury blocked his path. “Can I please come inside? Because you're making this big fuss about me being in your house when right now, I'm not really in your house at all, I'm on your patio, so if you're going to complain you might as well give me the chance to actually track mud across your nice clean floors or whatever.”

Fury grudgingly stepped aside, tucking the gun into the pocket of his robe.

“Thank you,” Stark said. The suit, which looked sleeker than usual, probably one of the portable models that could be removed and stowed without robotic assistance, whooshed softly as he moved. “I know at first I did the Groucho Marx thing, you know, any club that'd have me as a member, and then I guess I maybe acted like a bit of a diva when you told me I wasn't right to join your little gang after all. But come on, man. Things are . . . good, right now. Stable.” Stark's eyes flicked away then and his mouth turned down, and Fury was embarrassed by the obviousness of his lie. “I can do this, really. Just give me a chance to try.”

“Hell no.”

“Please?” Stark whined, and seriously? That's what he was going with? Fury snorted and looked up at the ceiling. He could still see Tony in his peripheral vision, jaw clenched and practically vibrating with tension.

Fury sighed. “Get your dick out,” he commanded.

Stark blinked, then laughed and mimed cleaning out his ear with an articulated metal finger. “That's—I'm getting a really weird glitch in my audio relay. It sounded like you just—”

“I said get your dick out, Stark.” Fury turned back to face him. “Take off that suit and get down on my floor, on your knees, naked, with your hands behind your back.”

Stark stared at him silently, his mouth open, saucer-round eyes blinking fast and uncertain. Finally his cheek twitched in a spasm of a smirk and a pink tongue-tip darted out to wet his lower lip as he prepared to retort—but Fury cut him off.

“You heard me, boy. Kneel.”

Stark's nostrils flared. "I'm not your 'boy', _fella_ , and I—”

“Tony!” Fury barked, and Stark's mouth snapped shut in answer. “I gave you an order. If you really want to be a part of the Avengers Initiative, you're going to have to get used to obeying them.”

Stark's jaw clenched and released as he floundered to regain his conversational bearings. “You know, I'm fairly certain that's sexual harassment.”

“Fairly certain?” Fury chuckled. “I thought you were an expert.”

“So they tell me,” Stark said. “Tell the truth, I don't really . . .” Fury could see the instant that Stark decided to give up on that sentence, realizing that 'pay attention to all that bullshit' was probably _not_ a smart thing to say, under the circumstances. “So you didn't mean any of that stuff you just—”

“No, I meant it.” Fury raised his eyebrow, showing open sincerity.

“ . . . Huh.” Stark frowned. “Are you really telling me that joining the Avengers Initiative is conditional on my kneeling naked on your living room floor?”

“Of course not,” Fury said. “I'll pass on word of your renewed interest either way, no comment on how I obtained the information. You know it's not entirely my decision, anyway. I'm simply giving you a non-compulsory opportunity to demonstrate to me personally how committed you are to the idea of service, to your team and to your country, and . . .” 

Fury paused and pursed his lips. This was a high-stakes gamble, very likely the worst thing he could possibly say; it was obvious that there was a button there, but no way to know for certain how Tony'd react when he pushed it, whether this would settle him down or push him away from Fury, and from SHIELD, forever. Plus he was still wearing the suit, and if he happened to lash out . . . Fury said it anyway: 

“And to make your father proud.”

Stark went very still, his lips slightly parted and eyes fixed on a point on the floor somewhere to Fury's left, for long enough that Fury was certain that he'd made a mistake and that Iron Man was about to walk out _through_ the shatterproof glass and possibly nuke his house from orbit, before he finally swallowed, jerked his head in what must have been a nod, and signaled his armor to retract. Fury nodded too, though he wasn't sure if Stark saw him, busy as he was disentangling himself from the whirring metal packing itself away into a nondescript, suitcase-sized package, and hoped that Stark was going along with this because he understood, and not because Fury had just half-accidentally shorted something important in his sensitive super-computer brain.

Either way, Stark was soon free of the armor. He seemed very small without it and, having set the case to one side, stood awkwardly in front of Fury in nothing but boxers that looked to Fury, who was admittedly not an expert on the underclothes of billionaires, like the sort of comfortable thing that someone would choose to wear to bed, not underneath a powered exoskeleton. He started to push the boxers down off his hips but Fury held up a hand, forestalling him. “Stop.”

He stepped closer, eye tracking over the shadows under Stark's eyes, etched too deeply to be an artifact of the dim light; over his mussed hair; and the growth of stubble blurring the artfully carved outline of his beard. This, together with the boxers, painted Stark a beleaguered insomniac, propelled by desperation out of bed in search of some distraction to muffle the hounds baying in the back of his brain—all in all, a familiar sight among the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division.

Stark, unsure of what to do if he wasn't following through on Fury's earlier instruction, curled his bare toes on the low-pile rug and wrapped his arms around his torso, rubbing his triceps although the room was not cold, until his eyes finally flickered uncertainly up to Fury's face. 

“What are you doing out of bed this late, Tony?” Stark blinked, but Fury didn't give him time to answer. “Don't you have something in your room, some project to keep you entertained and, more importantly, to keep you from wandering out here at this ungodly hour, waking _me_ up with your racket? You know I have actual work to do, that I have to get up early in the morning and spend all day doing, and that I need sleep to do that? Tony?”

Stark frowned, nodded, his face softening un-self-consciously into something vulnerable, something young, without letting go of any of the lines that 'experience' pooled around his eyes and mouth. 

“Well?” Fury said. “I asked you a question.”

Stark huffed a quiet laugh. “Actually, you asked me about eight.”

Fury snapped his fingers next to Stark's ear and he jumped. “Don't back-talk, buster, or you will regret it.” 

He tipped his head, watching Stark breathe and stare past him at the wall—he was still nervous, definitely, but he'd lost some of the panicky restlessness he'd carried when he arrived. 

“Now, since you got me out of bed and wound up with all this skulking around nonsense, I think it's only fair that you do something to help me settle down again. Put your smart mouth to work on something useful, for a change. What do you say to that?”

Stark's lips twitched in a barely suppressed smirk as he bit back some witty retort, but the smile continued to play around his mouth as he murmured, “Whatever you say, sir.” Fury sighed with relief at this signal that Stark was still present, knew exactly what he was doing and was still playing along.

“Get down on the floor like I told you to,” Fury said.

Stark rolled his eyes but did as he was told, sliding his boxers down his legs and stepping out of them, then lowering himself onto his knees on the rug and resting with his hands clasped meekly behind his back. Stark's dick was harder at this point than Fury's own, jutting up from the carefully groomed patch of dark hair between his thighs. 

Fury stood in front of him, his feet set wide and stable, and gestured at his crotch. “Well?” he said, and waited, letting it be Stark's choice, Stark's action, to reach up and cross the line of touch, pulling down Fury's pajama pants and drawing out his cock. Only when Stark had done that, cupping Fury's balls and drawing his hardening prick into his mouth, did Fury put his hands on Tony, grabbing hold of the hair on top of his head with his right fist while the fingertips of his left hand stroked his cheek.

Tony's eyes fluttered closed and he threw himself into the act, his head bobbing up and down on Fury's lengthening shaft. “That's it,” Fury encouraged, and was fairly certain he saw Tony's cheeks flush with color, although given the eerie way the whole scene was lit from below by the reactor keeping Stark alive and the sharp and shifting shadows thrown up by the motion as Tony rocked forward and back, it was hard to know for sure. “Show me what you've got.”

Tony hummed and changed his angle, opening up his throat to allow the head of Fury's cock to slip past the back of his tongue. Fury gasped and tightened his grip on Tony's hair, his other hand sliding to cup the side of Tony's face as he used both hands to wrest control from Tony, forcing his cock farther into Tony's throat. 

Tony's eyes snapped open and his face grew dark and flushed with sweat as he visibly reminded himself to keep breathing, sucking gulps of air in through his nose and around the obstacle in his esophagus. Fury eased back when Tony started to gag but kept his hold on Tony's head, using it to hold him steady while Fury fucked into his mouth.

“Touch yourself,” Fury instructed, his voice rough and quiet, and Tony reached for his cock. “Both hands.”

One of Tony's hands darted up to wipe his chin, using the saliva he collected there as lubrication as he began to jerk his straining cock, while his other hand went to work on his balls, squeezing and rolling them together. 

“That's it,” Fury said again, a bare whisper of air, as he rocked his hips to meet Tony's captured jaw, his eye cast downward, locked on the spectacle of Tony's face, wincing with need as he opened himself up to Fury's use. Fury swallowed, his throat gone bone-dry and burning with sympathy for the treatment Tony's was getting, and raised his voice. “Good boy. Can you come for me now? Can you come for Daddy?”

Tony whimpered as he came, curling in on himself, and the way his mouth fell open and his throat relaxed as the release overtook him allowed Fury to slide once again past the ring of muscle and spill his load, sunk to the hilt in Tony Stark's mouth. 

Fury pulled out and immediately collapsed onto the couch, tucking himself back into his pants when he landed. Tony, still kneeling on the rug, wiped his hands on his thighs, then reached up to rub at his abused throat and jaw. He cleared his throat and winced.

Fury smiled, and allowed to Tony to catch him smiling when he turned his head to look. He patted the cushion by his hip and Tony crawled up next to him, curling on his side with his head in Fury's lap. Fury blinked at him, then laid a hand on his shoulder, lightly stroking his upper arm. 

They stayed that way for a few quiet minutes before Fury yawned, stifling it with the knuckles of his free hand. “You ready to go back to bed?” he asked.

Stark barked a laugh. “What,” he said, his raw voice breaking like a teenager's, “you mean, now that I've had my warm milk?”

Fury snorted. “Yeah, that's what I meant. Think you can make it home, or would you prefer to stay here on the couch?”

“Couch is good,” Stark muttered, burrowing his face into Fury's thigh.

“Alright.”

Stark's head hit the seat when Fury stood up out from under him, and he grunted.

“I leave for work in two and a half hours,” Fury said. “That means you leave, too.”

“Okay.” Stark accepted the extra cushion that Fury pointed at him, though he clutched it to his glowing chest like a stuffed animal instead of tucking it under his head as a pillow, and he didn't move when Fury flipped the blanket over the back of the couch down on top of him. 

Fury spared a moment to frown at the floor, wondering how long it took billionaire spunk to soak into a standard Ikea rug and whether he ought to do something about that now before the stain set, then sighed and dragged his slippered feet back in the direction of his bedroom. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark,” he called over his shoulder, but Mr. Stark was fast asleep.


End file.
